by Daniel Birch
But, there is always one rumour, one story on the street that is true. No matter how awful, no matter how terrifying, the worst one out of them all was true, because he was real.
Mr. Murok - the man who beat children.
With poor Tommy having spent different spells with different foster homes, it was inevitable that he would have had some bad times.
I remember the weeks after Tommy was removed from the Muroks’ family home for his protection. Tommy was bruised but never really spoke of what happened to him. I remember seeing a change in Tommy after his spell with the Muroks. He seemed more aware of things. The playfulness of a once laugh-a-minute child had been replaced with a twitchy, and even sometimes paranoid, version of Tommy.
Tommy was like it for months after, but after being placed in a new home for a while, he seemed to get back to his old self, being happy again and playing with me down the street every other day. But to those who knew Tommy, you didn’t mention Mr Murok.
We had been picking brambles for my mother. She made the best bramble pies, and we were walking home and without really thinking we ended up walking past Mr Murok’s house.
It was a nice house. Four-bedroomed, semi-detached, with a stateof-the art conservatory and a really well kept garden. In the summer the flowers used to protrude out of his fence so me and the boys would pinch them for our mothers.
During that warm summer day I guess Mr Murok was just minding his own business. We were certainly the provocateurs.
As we walked up I saw the change in Tommy’s face.
‘You ok, Tommy?’ I asked.
He didn’t answer; he just dropped his basket as he looked at the house. Something bad happened to him in that house. It wasn’t until we were men that he told me he had been beaten for eating a biscuit.
As a kid I didn’t understand why Tommy was silent, stood like a statue. I asked a few times what was wrong, but still there wasn’t an answer.
Tommy had a look, and the look scared me. I thought that Mr Murok had maybe just been mean to him, so I got a stone ready.
We could see Mr Murok. He was in his kitchen. I said to Tommy, probably because I wanted to impress him, that I was going to smash his window.
I did. Little did we know that Mr Murok had ran for Great Britain in marathons. Oh yes, the chase was well and truly on.
The stone I threw from about ten feet away smashed through the window with ease. I don’t think that I or Tommy expected it to break so easy, but break it did, and Murok ran like a man possessed trying to get us.
The chase lasted a good 10 minutes. We ran in and out of streets, over fences, but the fucker kept coming for us.
We knew we were in the shit, so Tommy, being the more streetwise of us, decided to hotwire a car for us to get away.
We took what was a cool car in that day, a Ford Cortina, in race red. Now I loved cars at that age. I had even driven a few that our friends had stolen from time to time. I took the wheel once Tommy got it going, and things went downhill from there.
It all happened so fast. The car started, it seemed we had just flown down the street when I swerved to miss Mr Murok as he ran out in front of us, but I hit him anyway. He flew in the air and cracked his skull on the pavement, leaving Murok to be spoon-fed for the rest of his natural life.
Both I and Tommy owned up to what we had done. My mother wasn’t too bad, after some initial lectures off her and the police she didn’t mention it much after. She knew the stories about Murok, not that it made it ok what we did, but nevertheless, I think she was happy Mr. Murok was no longer a danger to children.
For the police this was a no-brainer. Tommy had pissed them off for years and, although he had never done anything serious, he was a pain to them, and the system as it was decided I got let off with a harsh warning, and Tommy got put into care, into a children’s home for ‘unruly kids ‘.
I was beside myself, both with guilt and a real fear of losing my friend.
The smug faces of the police at the court will always be fresh in my mind. They actually looked happy about this kid, my friend, being locked away in some horrible place. It was bloody awful. No child should have to go through it. I know he did wrong but, fucking hell, he was a kid for fuck sake.
I couldn’t believe it, they wouldn’t take me. ‘But it was me it wasn’t him. I nicked the car and hit the man. It was me, it wasn’t fucking Tommy!’ I felt embarrassed as I realised I had started to cry. These cops didn’t want anything but Tommy, they hated him and he had been a little bugger to them for years, they wanted him away. The only thing, which was nice was seeing Tommy smile at me.
Years later he said something that meant the world to me. He said ‘that day, Joey, the day they took me away, it was the first time anyone had stuck up for me in my life. I had never witnessed that, not for me, someone fought for me. I had a best friend, I didn’t give a shit about going to Hepshaws, for me that shit was easy, it was the feeling that someone actually gave a fuck about me, that was priceless. I actually, for once, felt that I had some self-worth.’
The outcome of that incident shaped both of our futures.
Every weekend I could, I tried to visit Tommy. He was surrounded by criminals and people who didn’t have much of a chance, people who had been given the shitty end of the stick.
In the years Tommy spent in Hepshaws, Tommy added more and more misdemeanours to his name. Theft, taking vehicles without the owner’s consent, assault, and the list goes on. If you were to look at his record it would seem there was a life criminal in the making, and that’s what they saw. I knew he wasn’t that guy, he really wasn’t. That’s what being locked up with other crims does, especially as a child, and it fucked him up.
They saw someone with a record, but when they looked closer, they realised Tommy wasn’t just some punk with half a brain with an attitude of ‘look at me, I’m the victim the system has failed’ like most of the born-to-lose thugs he resided with. No, Tommy was clever, he calculated his endeavours, he did his homework – but most of all he learned from his mistakes.
They recognised this; they watched him.
Places such as The Hepshaws Institution for Young Offenders were like a breeding ground for criminals, and when they identified guys like Tommy, they targeted them. They new a potential criminal with promise when they saw one. It was already inside him, all they had to do was chip away the pieces and sculpt him in to what they wanted.
They were the Army. Or least they said they were. Disguising themselves as Army careers personnel was a masterstroke. It was easy. Send a man in uniform, throw in a few forms, promises of this and that. To the kid that is going nowhere fast it all seems too good to be true, and it is.
X Company was more than a gang, more than a crew. They were organised, connected, and deadly.
The policy of X Company’s recruitment was no man could be part of the organisation unless he had had at least three years’ military service. Once a target came to their attention, usually with no family, no ties, then the young man would be sold the idea of the army, to prove himself as honourable, to be part of something. Then, when they eventually got out, they were recruited into X Company and given the chance to work a turf and become an earner. If all went well then any member could rest assured he was untouchable. If someone fucked with you, they were fucked with ten times as bad.
It was like the rules of the old Cosa Nostra. You fuck with a made guy, and it’s your arse.
They threw him a friend in the shape of Trigg. It was no accident that they ended up as bunkmates. They both saw the army careers guy, and they were both sold the dream. They basically had two choices: stay in Hepshaws, the academy for fuck ups and amount to nothing, or cut short the stay, get special dispensation at 16, and join the infantry, do the service, and look forward to a life with X Company when the service was finished.
I saw the road Tommy was going down. I tried and tried to tell him he was being played, but he didn’t see it. He had a new buddy in Trigg (who hate
d my guts for the record).
I saw Tommy every time he came home and tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen to me. I couldn’t be around him too much because he was into too much heavy shit, and I was going in a different direction.
He was better than what he was doing but I couldn’t get through to him, nobody could until he met Emma. Still I was always there for him and would have never abandoned him, ever.
Tommy, my friend, they had polluted his mind and I was powerless to stop it.
My life took a different route. I had been lucky to do well in exams, I was also lucky in college. Then I got lucky at university, lucky, that’s what they always told me. So with my luck I also got a Law Degree. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to make sure nobody got locked up who didn’t deserve it, not on my watch. I wanted to be someone who could look at himself in the mirror and know that I tried.
To me it was some deep ‘man in the mirror’ type of thing. I had to change my ways, had to make a difference.
I had to find my calling card, find my identity, make something of myself. I didn’t just owe it to myself, I owed it to Tommy. I knew scum when I saw it, and I knew victims of ‘wrong place wrong time’ too, but the career I chose would see to it I helped them all, the good and the bad.
So while I did the law, Tommy did the war.
Chapter Six
YORK, ENGLAND - PRESENT DAY
L. Blakeman & Sons was the tailors to go to should you want the finest suit money could buy. ‘Tailors since 1972’ read the sign on the shop window. Ricky Trigg really looked the part as he smiled to himself in a full length mirror and inspected himself carefully in his new £500 black pinstripe suit.
Nodding at the tailor in acknowledgement for the fine work, Trigg wanted Mr. Blakeman’s expert opinion.
‘What do you think, boss? Sleeves look ok? What about the tie? Gotta look the shit for my meeting today. Would you go with the cufflinks or not?
Standing back so he could get a good view, Mr. Blakeman smiled and told Trigg what he wanted to hear. ‘If you go with the grey and black cufflinks, sir, that would be my recommendation. Also I think the sleeves are splendid. You have to show a tiny bit of cuff so in a slight blink you catch the cufflinks. Plus the cufflinks compliment the tie.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I like it.’ Trigg smiled and nodded. ‘I’m walking out in this shit. Well it ain’t shit, but you get me, don’t you?’
Trigg looked at himself smiling vainly again, he was so happy. ’Yep, I’m one handsome motherfucker. What’s the damage boss?’
Walking out of the shop wearing his new suit, Trigg walked into the busy high street. He grabbed a cigarette and lit it. He inhaled slowly and exhaled even slower. After buying a morning newspaper from the paper stand seller, Trigg walked towards his car which was parked in sight at the side of the road. Enjoying the morning sun, Trigg’s karma started taking a nosedive as his phone rang. Looking at the caller id, Trigg saw it was one of his guys calling. ‘Fucking hell’ he thought to himself.
’Yeah? Make it quick, Mario. Got a massage at 10.30 and my steroids are kicking in, so I’m as horny as a motherfucker. Need to bust a nut before this meeting ‘cos I’m tense. So this better be good.’
‘Trigg, I have some news. Trigg, I ...’
’News? Is that all? I can get that from my paper! Look Mario I ain’t concerned if someone’s missed a payment and I ain’t concerned if someone needs a scaring - what am I paying you for? Did you not hear me before? I’m fucking busy, you greaseball Italian fuck, el busy, or however you say it in Italian, el busyito! Ha!’
‘You sat down?’
’I fucking swear to God I’m gonna grot you with a whore’s g-string if you don’t spit it out. What, Fuckhead? Your fucking with my fucking being, my chi, that’s why I told my therapist I can’t relax ‘cos fucking boneheads like you keep irritating me…’
’Trigg he’s...’
’What?’
’Trigg he’s alive.’
After a moment of cold silence, Trigg crunched the cigarette he was smoking in his own hand, not reacting from the pain of its burning him. Pacing backwards and forwards near his car, he was shocked, amazed and downright pissed off.
‘You there? You still there Trigg?’
Breathing slower and straining not to flip his lid, Trigg tried to focus. ‘Yes I’m still here, Mario. Look, I’m sorry, but you know how I get, right? Talk about shooting the messenger. Oh fuck, fuck, fucking fraggle fucker my fucking morning is ruined. Right, look, I have my meeting, remember? The meeting, and nothing can unscrew me at the mo. I can’t have me fucking thinking head being fucked with ‘cos this shit today’s fucking important shit. Now get the guy’s together and I’ll be over later. In the meantime find me out some truths, not ‘he saids, she saids’ Mario, but truths. We need to have facts on this.’
‘Will do, Trigg.’
Standing for a moment as he ended the call, Trigg looked into the sky. It was a beautiful day.
‘Ok, motherfucker, round two,’ he said out loud as he started the ignition and zoomed off down the road.
Chapter Seven
4 MONTHS AGO - SOMEWHERE IN THE IRAQI DESERT- 0400 HOURS
He couldn’t see. He wasn’t blind though, it was just that his vision was restricted by the blindfold around his eyes. They must have put it on when he had passed out. The last thing he remembered was being dragged into a building. He savoured the warmth as they dragged his body inside , then the warmth turned to cold as he saw a picture of Saddam Hussein hanging on a wall. It was staring right at him. His worst fears were confirmed with one quick glance. He was forced to look at a man; the man was bearded with angry eyes. The man shouted words he didn’t understand and then hit him with the butt of his rifle.
After that it was lights out.
He heard strange voices as he woke in a language he didn’t understand. He could smell sweat, he could also smell burning. The air was so dusty that he found it hard to breathe.
Tommy could feel the sweat dripping down his head onto his face, then rolling down to his chin. It made him thirsty. He was so thirsty.
The shoulder hurt like hell. His head was worst though. ‘That bastard Trigg! That bastard!’ Tommy now remembered Trigg had shot him in the shoulder. He needed medical attention.
Tommy had started to panic
‘Who the fuck are these people?’
Deep down he knew. He was just too scared in his own mind to accept he was in the presence of some of the nastiest people on God’s earth. And these people were here for him. What were their intentions?
Tommy knew. He knew what they were here for. He was under no illusions.
He just prayed deep down that for once he was wrong. He had to gather himself, gather his emotions.
Then a voice in a language he understood. ‘What did you say?’
Tommy asked out loud as he couldn’t quite make out the words of the comforting voice without a face.
‘Stop breathing so heavy. You’ll tire yourself out, son. You a soldier? You must be a soldier?’
Tommy let the words sink in. It was an American accent. He felt so good that wherever he was he was not alone. He told himself it must be an American soldier who had also been captured.
‘Thanks, I’m just so hot. I can hardly breathe. Yeah I’m a soldier. You?’ Tommy replied whilst trying to work out how close the voice was.
‘No, my friend, a reporter. It is hot. You gotta breathe more easily buddy. Chill out a little. You been processed yet?’
‘Processed? What’s that mean? Wait don’t answer that. You mean tortured, right? Wait, don’t answer that either. Oh no.’ Tommy knew what the voice meant.
Tommy had another flashback and he remembered being in extreme pain with what felt like a rock hitting his head a few hours ago.
That rock was in fact the butt of an Iraqi AK47 rifle introducing itself to his forehead. After that it got misty.
‘Look, hey, I don’t know your name. Well, whoev
er you are I tell you, I’m getting the fuck outta here, I ain’t seen anything yet, I’m kinda fuzzy headed, took a big crack from a rifle on me head, all I could hear was gibberish before I passed out, then I wake up in here.’
There was a shuffling as the voice sounded closer. ‘Look, buddy, first rule, keep quiet, they go fucking ape-shit when we make noise. Look, buddy, the likelihood of us getting out of here is slim – yours slimmer than mine. You’re a soldier for fuck sake, a prize; they’ll be parading your ass for sure. This is the place you stop bullshitting yourself. I know in your mind you think you’re gonna be the one to get out, that by some miraculous way of fate some camo wearing grunts are gonna barge through here and save your ass. Then you’ll go home to a big brass band with cameras asking how you coped. You write the book, do the TV interview. Your woman parades you to everyone as the hero come home. Ain’t gonna happen, my friend. Second rule, tell them what the fuck they need to know. If not, it will be a long long stay for you’.
Trying to scratch his nose which was itching whilst having his hands tied was challenging, but Tommy did it by simply brushing his head up against his shoulder as he answered.
‘Well, I guess I’m fucked then, ‘cos I tell you I don’t know shit, nothing which could help them anyway. All I know is I got fucked over by someone close to me, and I’m fucking stupid because my gut told me it weeks ago and I ignored it. But I am getting out. I’ll get out all right. I ain’t dying here. Got shit to deal with, and although I’m shitting bricks, I’m gonna try and have the courage to live. Any fucker can die’.
The American sounded serious as his voice grew louder ‘Wrong attitude. Whatever you have to deal with forget about, for now. Deal with the situation you’re in. You will learn, oh yeah, you gonna learn.
